


Hotel Alcatraz

by CypressSunn



Category: Hotel Artemis (2018), John Wick (Movies), Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25911706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CypressSunn/pseuds/CypressSunn
Summary: She snaps on a pair of vinyl gloves and holds up both hands before motioning towards his lower quadrant. A smart thing to do, when facing off with an animal. That’s all John is by now. He can accept that. Even this stubborn nurse can tell by just a glance.“I’m not putting down the gun,” he warns her.The nurse ignores him. “And still, I am going to help you.”
Comments: 5
Kudos: 55
Collections: 101 Prompts Meme, Crossworks 2020





	Hotel Alcatraz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GaleWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaleWrites/gifts).



John makes it to the iron grated door before he summarily collapses. His legs give out beneath him and his knees hit the cold, stone floor. He does his damndest to remain upright, to control the haggard rhythm of his breathing. It still echoes over the tunnel filling the darkness with the only sound for what feels like miles in either direction. John isn’t sure if this is the right place, if here is somewhere safe enough to fall for even a second. He’s been running through these utility tunnels and crawling through pipelines for hours trying to decipher the scrawled map left for him by one of the Bowery King’s men.

He’s only got two bullets left in his Glock 26. A knife hidden in his boot. The outline of his vision is getting faint. Or maybe what little light shines down here is fading away. John is all out of tools, and he is all out of time. He slumps back against the crumbling concrete wall. Thinks idly, if his body is never found then no one can collect the bounty. It’s a pointless victory; all it will achieve is keeping the myth of Baba Yaga alive long after him.

John closes his eyes.

The sound of electronic feedback cuts the air

“Sir, are you going to press the button?”

John lurches up, gun in hand and level with nothing. There is no target in sight.

“Sir,” comes the staticky voice again, “we cannot provide care until you press the button.”

Blinking, John follows the voice. There, next to the barred door. A rusted old speaker box and a circular push-button. _PRESS HERE FOR ASSISTANCE._ John pushes it with the butt of his gun. He doesn’t holster it as the bars creak open. On the other side is a passage. It fills with light from an opening door and John has to blink back tears.

Stepping into the glow he finds himself in another room facing another set of bars. The door seals shut behind him. He’s trapped.

“Please place your weapon in the designated receptacle.”

It’s the same voice from the speakerbox. Now it comes from a tiny woman in white scrubs and a camel overcoat. Her accent is clearer now, Cuban, John thinks. But she’s lived in the states long enough to lose some of the softness of her mother tongue. Now she’s glancing aside to a depository chute that will take his last weapon, his last defense and shuttle it to who knows where. 

“Sir, we cannot verify your account or begin checking you into a room until you have relinquished your weapon.”

“I heard you,” John says at last. His voice is hoarse, croaking close enough to a death rattle that it makes the poor woman jump. “I’m just trying to weigh the odds. See if compliance is what’s going to get me killed.”

She takes a step forward. John can see her better. Big hazel eyes. Dark hair pulled tight in a functional bun. Calloused hands, dry and cracked. Not from gunwork, but from the constant abrasion of hand-washing.

“I can assure you, our facility is safe.” She’s adamant, meaning she’s naive enough to believe this.

John shakes his head. “Nowhere is safe, I’m _excommunicado_.”

“That means nothing here. This is not the Continental.”

John doesn’t lower his gun. It’s been a long time since he was in a standoff like this. Facing off with someone claiming to want to do something other than hurt him. John has no intention of killing her. She’s entirely defenseless. The only thing fierce about her is the look in her face when she spits his limp.

“Sir, you’re _bleeding_.”

“Flesh wound.”

The woman sighs. With sagged shoulders she hits a keypad on her side of the iron bars. With a clang of metal and twisting hinges, the door opens. She steps inside.

“I am The Nurse. But you can call me Marta. I am going to walk towards you, slowly, and then I am going to begin examining you.” She snaps on a pair of vinyl gloves and holds up both hands before motioning towards his lower quadrant. A smart thing to do, when facing off with an animal. That’s all John is by now. He can accept that. Even this stubborn nurse can tell by just a glance. 

“I’m not putting down the gun,” he warns her.

The nurse ignores him. “And still, I am going to help you.”

With gentle hands, searching and prying, she finds the root cause of the bleeding. Beneath John’s bloody dress shirt and bullet resistant evening attire, she discovers the entry and exit points on his torso.

“These are bullet wounds! Sir, how in the hell are you still standing—”

“John. My name is John.” For some reason, he doesn’t want to be called sir. Reminds him too much of being waited on at the Continental.

“Hello, John,” the Nurse says tersely. “I am glad we are acquainted better. Maybe, now if you would like to receive surgery, you could put your weapon down and climb onto that gurney.”

“Wick.” John shuffles to the rolling cart and lays down on the top padding. Once lying down, he hands over his gun. “John Wick. The name on my account.”

“We will settle the matter of your account later.” The nurse begins moving. She pushes them along as fast as her legs can carry her. She’s dainty but determined.

“That’s not how these Hotel Hospitals operate.” John argues. The fluorescent lights above him are spinning and blinking. “Everything is up front or it’s nothing at all.”

“Are you telling me how to do my job?” snaps the Nurse. Distantly, John can hear other footsteps. Others are surrounding the nurse, joining her and following her lead. “No, I really do no understand how he is still conscious,” she tells one of them, and at another she commands, “get the Stockholm Suite ready. We're in for a hell of a patch-job.”

John cannot let it go. “I’m telling you how it’s done _everywhere_. At the Hotel Artemis, before they shut it down. And the Hotel Alastair, the Apache.” John coughs. Pain wracks through him but he doesn’t stop. “I saw a man bleed out at the Archipelago because they couldn’t verify his payments… his paperwork was misfiled.”

“We do things differently here in New York.” She is so matter-of-fact about it. She believes what she is saying and John is almost far gone enough to believe her. It is not like he hasn’t broken every rule left in the book at this point. He’s got the bullet wounds to show for it. But he does distnatly wonder what Benefactor this young Nurse, Marta, will have to answer to. He is going to owe her. He is going to owe her everything, decides, finally letting his head fall back. From one rogue to to another, he’ll be damn sure to settle up with her. Whatever it takes. The gurney barrels through a set of double doors and the Nurse wheels him into a medical suite. There is a sterile silver table and instruments and beeping technology. Other masked and gowned figures are entering the room. John feels a telltale pinprick in his elbow and darkness swarms over his thoughts. The last thing he hears is this;

“Welcome to the Hotel Alcatraz. Please enjoy your stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> 101 Prompt, #38: Rogue


End file.
